TO BE PUBLISHED SHORTLY

Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays

Edited by Frank Shay and Pierre Loving

This volume contains FIFTY REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS of the MODERN THEATRE, chosen from the dramatic works of contemporary writers all over the world.

THE CONTENTS ARE

AUSTRIA:

Schnitzler (Arthur)—

BELGIUM:

Maeterlinck (Maurice)—The Intruder

BOLIVIA:

More (Federico)—Interlude

FRANCE:

Ancey (George)—M. Lamblin

Porto-Riche (Georges)—Francoise’s Luck

GERMANY:

Ettlinger (Karl)—Altruism

von Hofmansthal (Hugo)—Madonna Dianora

Wedekind (Frank)—The Tenor

GREAT BRITAIN:

Bennett (Arnold)—A Good Woman

Calderon (George)—The Little Stone House

Cannan (Gilbert)—Mary’s Wedding

Dowson (Ernest)—The Pierrot of the Minute

Ellis (Mrs. Havelock)—The Subjection of Kezia

Hankin (St. John)—The Constant Lover

INDIA:

Mukerji (Dhan Gopal)—The Judgment of Indra

IRELAND:

Gregory (Lady)—The Workhouse Ward

HOLLAND:

Speenhoff (J. H.)—Louise

HUNGARY:

Biro (Lajos)—The Grandmother

ITALY:

Giacosa (Giuseppe)—The Rights of the Soul

RUSSIA:

Andreyev (Leonid)—Love of One’s Neighbor

Tchekoff (Anton)—The Boor

SPAIN:

Benevente (Jacinto)—His Widow’s Husband

Quinteros (Serafina and Joaquin Alvarez)—A Sunny Morning

SWEDEN:

Strindberg (August)—The Creditor

Wied (Gustave)—Autumn Fires

UNITED STATES:

Beach (Lewis)—Brothers

Cowan (Sada)—In the Morgue

Crocker (Bosworth)—The Baby Carriage

Cronyn (George W.)—A Death in Fever Flat

Davies (Mary Carolyn)—The Slave with Two Faces

Day (Frederic L.)—The Slump

Flanner (Hildegarde)—Mansions

Glaspell (Susan)—Trifles

Gerstenberg (Alice)—The Pot Boiler

Helburn (Theresa)—Enter the Hero

Hudson (Holland)—The Shepherd in the Distance

Kemp (Harry)—Boccaccio’s Untold Tale

Langner (Lawrence)—Another Way Out

Millay (Edna St. Vincent)—Aro da Capo

Moeller (Philip)—Helena’s Husband

MacMillan (Mary)—The Shadowed Star

O’Neill (Eugene)—Ile

Stevens (Thomas Wood)—The Nursery Maid of Heaven

Stevens (Wallace)—Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise

Tompkins (Frank G.)—Sham

Walker (Stuart)—The Medicine Show

Wellman (Rita)—For All Time

Wilde (Percival)—The Finger of God

YIDDISH:

Ash (Sholom)—Night

Pinski (David)—Forgotten Souls

Large 8vo. Cloth. Gilt top. NET $5.00 ¾ Turkey Morocco NET $12.00

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY

PUBLISHERS :-: CINCINNATI, U.S.A.

STEWART KIDD MODERN PLAYS
Edited by Frank Shay

HEARTS TO MEND

Stewart Kidd Modern Plays

Edited by Frank Shay

TO MEET the immensely increased demands of the play-reading public and those interested in the modern drama, Stewart & Kidd Company are issuing under the general editorship of Frank Shay a series of plays from the pens of the world’s best contemporary writers. No effort is being spared to secure the best work available, and the plays are issued in a form that is at once attractive to readers and suited to the needs of the performer and producer.

From time to time special announcements will be printed giving complete lists of the Plays. Those announced thus far are:

SHAM, a Social Satire in One Act.

By Frank G. Tompkins.

Originally produced by Sam Hume, at the Arts and Crafts Theatre, Detroit.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE, a Pantomime in One Act. By Holland Hudson.

Originally produced by the Washington Square Players.

MANSIONS, a Play in One Act.

By Hildegarde Flanner.

Originally produced by the Indiana Little Theatre Society.

HEARTS TO MEND, a Fantasy in One Act.

By H. A. Overstreet.

Originally produced by the Fireside Players, White Plains, N. Y.

Others to follow.
Bound in Art Paper. Each net 50 cents.

HEARTS TO MEND

A FANTASY IN ONE ACT

By
HARRY A. OVERSTREET

HEARTS TO MEND was first produced by the FIRESIDE
PLAYERS, White Plains, N. Y., in April, 1919, with
the following cast:

CINCINNATI
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1920
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY

All Rights Reserved
Copyrighted in England

This play is fully protected by the copyright law, all requirements of which have been complied with. No performance, either professional or amateur, may be given without the written permission of the author or his representative, who may be addressed in care of the publishers, Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

HEARTS TO MEND

The Scene is the living room, dining room and kitchen—all in one—of Pierrot and Pierrette. It has the diminutive look of a toy house, and the immaculate spick-and-spanness. There are copper kettles and pots on shelves and blue and white plates and cups and saucers. There is a crib in the corner, left, with a screen that can be drawn about it. A table is at the right, front, by the side of which sits Pierrot, head in hands, elbows on knees, very gloomy. A door, left, leads to an inner room; a door, right, to the street.

HEARTS TO MEND

(Pierrette is heard singing a lullaby in the next room.)

Old Mister Moon is sinking to rest—

Sleep, kittikins, sleep!

The whispery winds have died in the west—

Sleep—kittikins—sleep!

(She comes in, holding a babe in her arms; sings—very softly.)

Up in the sky are the firefly stars—

Sleep, kittikins, sleep!

Father will catch them in crystal jars—

Sleep—kittikins—sleep!

(She lays the babe in its crib, the while softly humming the tune. Then she draws the screen about the bed. Meantime she casts anxious glances at the moody Pierrot. The babe asleep, she runs to Pierrot, kneeling at his side.)

PIERRETTE

Tired, sweetheart?

PIERROT (indifferently)

Oh—I guess so.

PIERRETTE

And famished, isn’t that it?

Kettle not boiling,

And table unset;

And hungry man waiting

For slow Pierrette!

It’ll all be on the table, dear, in just the littlest minute.

PIERROT

Oh, it’s not supper.

PIERRETTE

Not supper?

PIERROT

No.

PIERRETTE (solicitously)

You haven’t caught cold, Pierrot? You know I told you to wear your woolen muffler and put on your rain shoes. For a man of your superior intelligence, you are so careless!

PIERROT

(getting up with irritation and walking away)

Oh, let me alone, Pierrette! You wouldn’t understand. Get some supper for yourself. I don’t want any.

(She looks at him troubled for a moment. Then she runs to him, puts her hands on his breast.)

PIERRETTE

Pierrot.

PIERROT

Well?

PIERRETTE

(pointing an accusing finger at him slowly)

You—haven’t—been—to—see—your—bank—account—again?

(Pierrot shakes his head gloomily.)

PIERRETTE

Oh yes you have! Don’t deny it! And worrying yourself to death about expenses. But Pierrot—things aren’t nearly as bad as you think they are. I’m doing all my own work—even the washing and the ironing—and Pierrot!—I’ve got a scheme! We’ll take a boarder!

PIERROT (disgusted)

Boarder! Ugh!

PIERRETTE

Why not, sweetheart? Of course, we’d have to talk to him at mealtimes, I suppose. And you couldn’t kiss me across the table as you used to.... (Suddenly, with a catch) Do you know, Pierrot, you haven’t kissed me across the table for—oh—ever so long!

PIERROT (struggling with himself)

Pierrette....

PIERRETTE

Yes, dear.

PIERROT (trying to get it out—then in despair)

Oh, what’s the use. I can’t tell it to you.

PIERRETTE (troubled)

Why, what is it, Pierrot? You’ve lost something?

PIERROT (quickly)

Yes—that’s it. I’ve lost something—the only thing I had, Pierrette—my song!

PIERRETTE

Ah, the silly people didn’t laugh to-day—that’s it?

Silly, silly people,

Staring at a steeple;—

And you’re all in the dumps, Pierrot? Isn’t that the trouble?

PIERROT

They didn’t laugh to-day, Pierrette; and they didn’t laugh yesterday. They haven’t laughed for a long time—not as they used to. (Most gloomily) And three of my songs have come back from the editors!

PIERRETTE (defending him)

But who cares for editors, Pierrot? They’re such stupid creatures! Some day you’ll write a great song that everybody’ll love; and then you’ll see all the foolish little editors bringing you velvets and gold.

PIERROT (in gloom)

No. The editors are right. The people are right. Something’s gone out of me. I’m not the same as I was before—before—How long have we been married, Pierrette?

PIERRETTE

Just three tiny years!

PIERROT (sighing)

Only three years! (Then bitterly—to Pierrette) Here!—I’ll give you a sign. Look!

(He walks with flat, listless feet up and down the room; then speaks, with a hopeless sob in his voice) I no longer walk on my toes! See! Flat—like that! No songs ever walked that way! Songs? No—here’s the way—

(He rises momentarily to his toes and sings.)

Oh, a merry, merry fellow,

And a sweet, fair maid,

Danced on the meadow in the gypsy time—

Said the merry, merry fellow

To the sweet, fair maid—

(He breaks off.)

PIERROT (hopeless)

No—I can’t do it. It’s gone out of me. (Desperately) Pierrette—I’ve come to a conclusion. I ought never to have married!

PIERRETTE (suddenly stabbed)

Oh, Pierrot, it’s been the most beautiful thing in all the world!

PIERROT

That’s because you’re a woman, Pierrette, and not an artist.

PIERRETTE

But you said it was the most beautiful thing in all the world, Pierrot.

PIERROT (vaguely)

Did I? That was long ago. You don’t understand, Pierrette. Women never do. Life to them is a little cage in which they sit all day long and sing tiny songs about tea and muffins. Men are different. Put them in a cage and they sing for a day. Then they begin to droop.

PIERRETTE (hurt)

So you want to go away, Pierrot?

PIERROT (passionately)

I want to capture it again—the power, the thrill, the fire of song!

PIERRETTE

And you would capture it if—if I—(looking toward the screen which hides the crib) if we—were not here?

PIERROT (flinging out his arms in despair)

Oh, I’m a brute, Pierrette! I don’t know. I’m gone stale—that’s the trouble. I’m done for—all these worries and things. I’ll sit at home, I guess, and darn socks!

(He flings himself into his chair. Pierrette moves quietly about, putting his tea on the table. She sets tea only for one.)

PIERRETTE (handing him his cup)

There, sweetheart. Your tea.

PIERROT (stirring himself)

Aren’t you going to have some, too?

PIERRETTE (controlling her voice and with her back half turned to him as she goes to the other room)

Oh no, dear; I’ve had lots of tea this afternoon. I’m not hungry. Besides, I’m late with the cleaning up. I’ll be gone only a minute.

(She goes out quickly. Pierrot makes to rise and follow her; then, with a hopeless wave of the hand, sinks back into the chair. He drinks his tea moodily. There is a voice outside)—

“Tins to mend! Tins to mend!”

(A knock at the door and the Tins-to-mend man enters.)

MAN (taking off his cap, half humorously, half apologetically)

Any tins to mend, sir?

PIERROT (grimly)

Nothing as easy as that in this house. It’s hearts to mend here!

MAN (slinging off his pack)

Hearts to mend?—oho—I do that, too! Truth is (confidentially), it’s come to be my main business. For if you’d believe it, there’s more hearts to mend and souls to mend than pots and kettles to mend in this old world of ours. Fact, my dear sir, fact! (Sits down) And you can’t throw hearts away when they begin to show wear—now can you?—like you throw away an old pot? No siree! (Impressively) You got to mend ’em. And there’s tricks about mendin’ them, sir—tricks in all trades, say I. You can mend ’em so’s they’s worse’n they was in the beginning. And you can mend ’em so careful and so clever, you can’t tell they was ever mended at all. In fact, I’ve mended some of them so they was better that way than they was in the beginning. Seems curious, but it’s true. If there was a kettle now you wanted me to work on while I was talkin’, it’d keep me busy.

(Pierrot looks about; gets up and tosses him a kettle.)

PIERROT

There! Bang away at that!

(He sits down again. The Tins-to-mend man hammers away for awhile, Pierrot watching him gloomily.)

MAN

You see—pots and kettles is curious things. Y’ can’t just let ’em set there and be. They rust. That’s what they do. Y’ got t’ keep shinin’ ’em—keep polishin’ ’em up. And they like it, sir—oh, they do! They kinda get a hold on life. And when they hang in your kitchen all bright and happy like, they just seem to sing away like birds. Now you’re a singer, sir—why don’t you make a song about that?

PIERROT

I can’t sing any more.

MAN

Lost your voice, sir?

PIERROT

No—worse than that—I’m married!

MAN (solicitously)

That’s bad, sir; that’s bad—if you’re not married right. They take it out of a man, them wicked ones!

PIERROT (firing up)

Who said she was a wicked one?

MAN

But if she’s good—

PIERROT (hopelessly)

Ah, that’s the trouble. She’s good. A man can’t live on goodness alone. It gets on his nerves.

MAN

And what else should he live on?

PIERROT (passionately)

Thrills—passions—longings! The kisses that make dreams—the touches of hands that make the songs come tumbling out of you—

MAN (laughing)

Oho, but it ought to be easy enough for a handsome young master like you to get those things!

PIERROT

It’d break her heart.

MAN (lifting his eyes)

Then you’re fond of her, sir?

PIERROT (roughly)

Of course I’m fond of her. That’s just the trouble! (pause) But I’m tired to death of her—and that’s the trouble, too. First, when I loved her, just a peep of her out of a window would set my heart dancing. Now, when I see her—it’s just like seeing—the butcher boy—or the bakeshop woman. (Rises excitedly) I tell you when things are like that, something’s got to be done. An artist can’t live that way. Ordinary men can. All they want of their wives is to be cushions—soft—so’s they can go to sleep. Artists are different. They want the sky and all the quivering stars in the sky. When they marry (he makes a grimace)—it’s good-bye to the stars!

MAN (looking at him quizzically)

Did you ever think, sir, why the night was made—with them stars you talk of?

PIERROT

Why was the night made?

MAN

Or why there’s settin’ o’ the sun and risin’ o’ the sun?

PIERROT

Why is there setting of the sun and rising of the sun?

MAN

Well—I don’t exactly know myself. But I seem to figger it out this way. Think of what it’d be, I says to myself, if there was all just one long day. Always day and day and day. Always the same glary light starin’ y’ in the eye—borin’ into your brain—so’s y’ couldn’t shut it out from y’; so’s y’ couldn’t get away from it; so’s y’ couldn’t watch the shadders come stealin’ along, the sun a-settin’ and the twinklin’ stars a-comin’ out—and so’s y’ couldn’t stretch yourself out and sleep—and so’s y’ couldn’t all of a sudden wake and hear the birds chirpin’ and a new day come! Ah, it’s that, sir—it’s the comin’ of the new day that makes life the grand thing it is—the comin’ of the new day every day!

PIERROT (wonderingly)

The coming of the new day every day?

MAN

Just that. It’s a grand plan, sir! Keeps the world young. You try it.

PIERROT

Try it? What do you mean? I’m not the sun.

MAN

Ah, but you can be—and starlight and moonlight! How long was it—now tell me—since the thought came to you in the morning—I’ll bring her—I’ll bring her a vi’let? Oho—I know—(sings)

Sweet was the honeymoon,

Swift it passed away—

Now we’re steady married folk—

Day after day.

It’s only for a short time—in the beginning—that every day’s a new day. After that it’s just always the same—always the same—and no risin’ o’ the sun in the mornin’—no chirp of birds—and no singin’ in the heart.

PIERROT

You mean—

MAN (roguishly, bending to his task)

I mean there’s a good way to mend kettles and a bad way, sir; and when the kettles are singin’ and the fires are burnin’ under them—Oho—but there’s more hearts than kettles!

(Pierrot stands thinking.)

PIERROT (to himself)

I used to bring her things—a little red cloak I once brought her. Oh, she was happy! I remember that day. I made a song about it.

MAN (hammering away—sings)

Tins to mend,

And hearts to tend;

Hearts and tins

Have outs and ins!

PIERROT (continuing—to himself)

It was one of my very best songs. And she was so happy! (Suddenly) Why—I’ve forgotten all about her lately! Even her birthday! She had to remind me of it! Poor Pierrette!

MAN (sings)

Outs and ins;

Outs and ins;

That’s where the trouble

Of life begins!

(Pierrot looks up. His eyes suddenly grow bright with an idea.)

PIERROT (rising to his toes—running to the Tins-to-Mend Man)